The Woman Who Refused to Let Life Go
- Apr 7
- 2 min read
By Diann Floyd Boehm
The tires crunched over the gravel drive as James parked the car in front of his daughter-in-law’s small house. Before the engine even stopped, Jane gripped his arm. “Stop the car,” she whispered. “There’s the doctor.”
Jane was out the door before James could turn the engine off. She ran toward the doctor. “Has the baby come?” she asked, breathless.
The doctor hesitated. “It did. But it’s too small to live. It’s in the trash can.”
Time stood still. Then Jane sprinted toward the back steps to find her daughter and the baby. James stayed frozen a bit longer, then gave the doctor a few choice words, and followed Jane.
Jane reached the trash can and with shaking hands lifted the bundle inside. The tiny body was still, silent. But Jane had delivered babies before, including her first grandchild. She knew this wasn’t the end. She wrapped the child close to her chest, whispering, “Come on, little one. Breathe. Please, God, help her breathe.”
Working swiftly, Jane gave her a few drops of whiskey and a water enema, then gently rubbed her stomach. When air finally left the child’s lungs in a cry—loud, furious, alive—Jane’s tears came. James and the family crowded around her, their relief filling the room. Jane went on cleaning and wrapping the baby, thanking God for letting her live.
That baby was my mother, born July 4, 1931.
Jane took the baby and laid her on my grandmother’s chest. Pearl was too weak to hold her, so Jane tied strips of cloth around them, securing the baby close so she could nurse.
Then Jane saw the color draining from Pearl’s face. Feverish murmurs escaped her lips. “Blood. Too much.” Jane began to work, her movements steady and sure, cleaning and packing, doing everything she’d once watched a doctor do. Her hands saved her daughter that night, just as they’d saved her grandchild.
For weeks, Pearl could not rise from bed. Jane took care of her daughter and the baby. She massaged Pearl’s legs so her muscles wouldn’t waste, changed bed pans. The baby was growing and getting plenty of breast milk. Slowly, life returned to both mother and child.
That night, once the house quieted, Jane sat on the sofa with her cup of tea and thought about her own remarkable journey. How did a little girl who lost her mother at four in 1880 grow up to become a midwife, healer, and saver of lives?
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